


Like Coming Home

by Loracine



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Domestic Violence, M/M, Minor Character Death
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-21
Updated: 2016-09-21
Packaged: 2018-08-16 11:25:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,065
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8100625
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Loracine/pseuds/Loracine
Summary: Dean caught him looking around. "Hydrogen peroxide really is the best way to get blood out of just about everything. I had to toss the rug, though," he said and gestured to the trash bin out at the side of the house.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the Wincest Writing Challenge on Tumblr.  
> Prompt: homecoming

"Hey, baby," Mick sang as he slunk in through the front door whistling like he hadn't spent the night in a big cage with twenty other guys. He was still dressed in yesterday's clothing and he stank worse than a brewery. It was like someone had gotten the bright idea to put essence of piss, shit, and piss-water beer into a lousy excuse for a cologne. He reeked of it.

Dean didn't look up from where he was finishing the last of the dishes, hands sunk deep in the soapy water. He grunted in reply. He wasn't in the mood to hear whatever half-assed explanation his husband had for the late homecoming. He wasn't particularly happy to see him coming through the door again either. It would have been a blessing if one of these days he just up and disappeared.

Mick slid up behind him, chin hooked over his shoulder while his hand started groping the front of his jeans.

Dean grimaced, the disgust plain in the expression on his face and the rigid unwelcome way he was holding his body. "Take a shower," he suggested, "I'll have lunch on the table in a moment." He was hoping the man would go without further argument. The smell from just his husband's breath from over his shoulder was nauseating enough that he just might puke if he had to smell the man much longer.

"You better. Ain't good for nothin' else," he complained as he pressed up against him and ground his groin into Dean's ass.

Dean gripped the knife he was washing, their big slicing knife from the block on the counter, tempted to sink the thing into Mick's gut and twist. Reflexively, he steadied himself with his other hand on the opposite side of the sink, jamming one finger on the faucet in the process. "I'm not in the mood, Mick," he growled, "Get the hell off me."

Mick finally got his fly down and his hand dove inside with a snicker of triumph. Dean was not even the slightest bit interested and a quick grab at his genitals let his husband know it.

Dean didn't stop him. It wasn't like his complete lack of interest was a recent development anyway. He didn't need a hard prick to get fucked up the ass anyways. He didn't appreciate it, though. His knuckles were going white around the hard plastic handle of the kitchen knife. He was still sporting the vestiges of that black eye Mick had given him a few days ago when he'd come home late from work and he really didn't want another one. Bobby had needed one last review of his books before finalizing the sale of his business and it had taken a little longer than either of them had expected to get it done. Dinner would have been so late that night he had ordered Chinese on the way and hoped for the best. It hadn't worked out, like everything else in his life lately, and Mick had taken his childish temper out on Dean's face as a result.

"Frigid bastard," Mick accused. He squeezed, finger cruelly biting into delicate flesh. "Why aren't you ever interested anymore, Dean?! Seeing someone else?!" He wrapped his long fingers around Dean's neck, avoiding both trachea and carotids. "Answer me. You stepping out on me?!" His voice had gotten low and his fingers were going to leave bruises. Same old, same old.

"You know I'm not," Dean scoffed, trying not to let the man know just how much what his hand was doing to him actually hurt. What would he do with a second asshole hanging off his coattails? He was already looking to get rid of the first one.

Dean didn't expect the punch to the kidneys. Mick usually preferred messing up his face, liked to call him pretty while he did it. "I don't need your lip," he replied nastily and went for another hit in the same spot.

Every time this happened, every time the man started beating on his body, Dean began to wonder if this was it, if Mick would just get it over with and finally kill him. This time he knew it wasn't going to be it, not for Dean. Enough was enough. He adjusted his grip on the knife handle so that the blade pointed towards his body and then shifted his upper torso aside just far enough so that his backwards stab hit Mick and not his own body.

Mick made this strangled grunting sound and toppled to the floor.

That had been entirely too easy. He hadn't been aiming for anything in particular. Dean turned around cautiously. He didn't know what he'd been expecting, but it hadn't been the sight of his husband crumpled on the floor, gasping for breath like a prized catfish, and desperately trying to stem the tide of blood pumping from the big hole in his chest.

Dean tiredly wiped the back of his hand on his forehead, smearing a wide path of blood on his face without realizing it.

Well, hell. Things were looking up.

The cops came with their sirens and their guns, their cameras and their questions. They didn't leave until after they'd secured Dean in the backseat of one of their squad cars, hands cuffed fast behind his back. In all, Dean figured that so far he was having a pretty swell day.

By the end of the day he was rubbing at the chafed skin on his wrists in a posh conference room at the county Sheriff's office while the interrogation team took a break. He was smiling brightly, green eyes glinting in the fluorescent lighting like it was Christmas. Maybe it was. Mick was well and truly dead. He never thought it would feel so good to be a widower. Even if he ended up in jail, it had been worth it. He didn't think it could be worse than marriage.

"Let's go over this again," the deputy was saying. They'd already been over how Mick had died, all over it, about four times since Dean had called 911 himself. He'd waited a good hour or so first, though. He had no intention of letting the bastard survive, not after he'd promised to kill Dean in between in last dying breaths. Then Dean had been brutally honest with them. He'd told them all about Mick and the marks he'd left on his body, his hospital visits so frequent that the nurses knew him on sight, and exactly every minute detail of how the man had died.

Dean rolled his eyes, shrugged, and pleasantly replied, "Sure. Can we get some food first? I haven't eaten since morning."

The woman started asking the same old questions, obviously trying to get a different answer, one she'd feel better about arresting him for. But, Dean didn't have anything more to tell them than what he already had. He’d done it and he wasn’t going to lie about it either.

\---------------

Sam didn’t know why he was here. He’d promised himself a long time ago that he’d never return to the little backwater Kansas town he once had called home. The moment his assignment in Los Angeles has come through he hadn’t bothered to look back. Sam had not wanted to, and he’d not once regretted that decision.

A bleach blonde looked up at him with wide brown eyes from his desk by the door and asked brightly as he passed, "Can I help you?"

The Sheriff chose that moment to emerge from his office, waving Sam over like he was thrilled to see him. "Wesson, get yer ass over here," he called across the small building.

Sam offered a smile to the man in apology before doing as he’d been told. He found the Sheriff behind his desk, reading glasses perched on his nose while he typed away on his computer with two index fingers. When he didn’t immediately look up, Sam cleared his throat and inquired, "You wanted to see me?"

The Sheriff took off his reading glasses with a sigh, "Son, you have got quite an impressive history with the Los Angeles Internal Affairs. Did you know that Detective Bromlin has your cell number on speed dial?"

Sam looked confused. "I’m not sure where this is going." His last supervisor in LA had very pointedly suggested he take the job in Kansas before IA finally got something to stick to his ass, but he hadn’t expected this small town lawman to give a damn about big city sensibilities. No matter what, Sam had always gotten the job done.

The Sheriff pinched the bridge of his nose. "See, right there is what I’m talkin’ about," he replied. "Have you ever met a perp you haven’t shot?"

Sam would have laughed except for the fact that it had been a serious question.

He didn’t have time to reply, though. The Sheriff waved him off and quickly added, "Nevermind. I’ve got a job for you. Dean Winchester out on Whiskey Creek killed his husband yesterday. Self defense, looks like. Michael was one vicious bastard these last few years. No one’s missin’ him except for his daddy. I need you to get out there and make sure Dean don’t remember nothing else important. Just try not to shoot him."

The house looked older than he remembered, more worn down. The building looked tired from his spot on the dirt path leading up to it, and not even the cheerful yellow paint trimmed with white of the front door could lift the gloom of disrepair. With a sigh, thinking he’d better get this over with, Sam rapped hard enough on the frame to be heard upstairs.

Dean was smiling when he opened the door, practically glowing. "Sam Wesson," he greeted with genuine surprise. "As I live and breath."

"Dean," he acknowledged. They hadn’t been close in high school. Sam had been so far in the closet that he couldn’t have found the light switch even if he’d known where it was. Dean had been the only admitted gay in Lawrence, out and proud despite the beatings it had earned him. Sam had wanted the other boy, though. He’d been pretty then. Looking at him now, Sam decided that the other man had aged like a fine wine. He was even more beautiful standing in the doorway with his happiness lighting up his face. "Can I come in?"

"I heard you were back in town. I didn’t believe it," he went on as he left the door open and walked further into the house. "So, you’re a Deputy now."

Sam followed him. "First day," he confirmed. He noticed the kitchen was spotless, not one hint of the blood from the crime scene photos. He also noticed that the place looked identical to when the Perkins widow had installed the cabinets almost twenty years ago.

Dean caught him looking around. "Hydrogen peroxide really is the best way to get blood out of just about everything. I had to toss the rug, though," he said and gestured to the trash bin out at the side of the house.

"What happened yesterday?"

Dean lit up when he started telling the story, leaving nothing out of the tale. When he was through he turned to look at Sam and said, "I had such a crush on you." Then he closed his eyes, like he'd said too much.

Sam stood in the kitchen doorway watching the man putter about, cleaning the counter of every speck of imaginary dirt. He saw Dean’s bottom lip quiver as he worked and he trapped it between his white teeth to stop it. Sam realized that, despite appearances, Dean was uncertain. "I had a crush on you too," he finally replied as he stepped close, watching for any sign of uneasiness.

Slits of green cracked open to consider the truth of his words. "I doubt that," he replied bitterly, the smile dropping from his lush mouth.

Sam grasped his shoulders and turned him around gently.

Dean looked up, eyes searching his face.

Sam crowded him up against the countertop, his intent clear enough that the other man had plenty of time to escape if he chose, and at the same time Dean plastered his own slightly shorter body up against the Deputy's. Their mouths met hungrily and it felt like coming home.


End file.
